NaNoWriMo Check In

Now that it is almost the middle of the month, it's time for a check-in. For the uninitiated, NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month. Though I didn't sign on for the full experience (a new 50,000 word novel written during November; 1667 words a day), I made a goal with my peeps from the Super-Secret Society of Quirk and Quill to finish my draft of Into the Trees by Thanksgiving, or at the very least, by the end of the month.

I began with 30,040 words, a hazy outline, and a slight addiction to Facebook. I now have close to 38,000 words (in addition to having shelved about 3,000 words in the course of revising). My outline has expanded significantly (um, like I have a middle now), and I have had several plot epiphanies. And I have turned my addictions to Lindt's Chili Dark Chocolate Bars. They're more productive.

Winning

I've won a book! A picture book! Though this doesn't make up for the fact that in the course of 24 hours last week, my boiler was diagnosed with a debilitating disease, and my children have torn and outgrown so many pieces of clothing that they practically need new wardrobes.

Still.

A new book. A nice book. A book that I like.

I shall bear the title of "winner" all day now, simply because I tweeted a small tweet.

And perhaps that will make all the difference.

Thank you, PenguinUSA.

Dress up

Why is it so enticing to don a pair of black and white striped tights, and pretend to be someone else? So enticing that on a drive through a windy night with a nearly-full moon, you can practically taste the night air as you soar through it on a broom racing through the falling oak leaves?

What is it about putting on a flapper hat with a long feather that makes your eyes shine a bit brighter and your smile stretch a bit wider? That makes you laugh differently?

What is it about wearing a tiara or a feather boa or a long string of jet beads or even a bandana to take on a persona that is so far removed from your everyday jeans and tee-shirt?

Some things never change; they only grow with time. The dress-up box grows up to be a closet, and the little girl grows up to be a witch. Heh.

A Number, Not a Name

You, too, can scan yourself at the local grocery store, should you be so inclined.

However, don't blame me if you come back as "unknown code."


by Barcodes Inc

Ideas

Eating a ripe apple on a fall day: Good idea.

Buying a bushel of apples to make apple sauce, apple butter, apple juice: Ok idea.

Buying a second bushel of apples to make more apple sauce, apple butter, apple juice: Bad idea.

*****

Buying some peaches to can: Good idea.

Buying a box of peaches to make peach jam: Ok idea.

Buying a second box of peaches to make more peach jam: Bad idea.

*****

Canning tomatoes: Good idea.

Canning a bushel of tomatoes: Ok idea.

Canning a second bushel of tomatoes: Bad idea.

*****
A pattern emerges.

I think I'm ready to hibernate.

At the Top of the World

At the top of the world, roads look like toothpicks. Forests of trees become moss. Boulders are pebbles. People are insubstantial, insignificant.

At the top of the world, you can see where God took a scoop out of the hillside with a giant hand, and scattered pebbles along the way, sifting them through his fingers.

At the top of the world, you can dance with the clouds, breathe them in, breathe them out. Watch them swirl over a ridge.

At the top of the world, you can see the land, the sky, the curve of the earth cradled in the palm of the heavens.

I know. I was there.

Blueberry Hill

Bucket in hand, ku-plink, ku-plank, ku-plunk, the sound of blueberries dropping in, one by one, then handful by handful. She had no intention of picking blueberries this year, but a free morning, a clear blue day, and a nearby farm called to the deep-down parts of her that pleaded with her to fill the nest with bottled fruit, canned jams, pickled beans--food storage for the hard winters.

So she went. Edging her way through the rows of bushes higher than her head, squinting up at cluster of berries, ku-plink, ku-plank, ku-plunk, into the bucket they go. And before she knew it, four pounds of berries nestled together in the bucket awaiting pectin.